Chapter Twenty-Five

Rowan

The elevator dings as I step out onto the floor of The Seattle Sunrise , the usual bustling sound of a busy newsroom with reporters typing furiously, making calls, and piecing together stories for tomorrow's edition. But none of that matters right now. Not when I’m headed straight to Charles Albright’s office with one goal in mind—to set boundaries about my story on Bex Townsend.

As I approach his door, I clutch my notebook, stuffed with notes, though I haven't gotten to write down anything in it about Sam's retirement and love after hockey. It's still all in my head. I'm so excited to write it that it might be the first time I don't need notes to write an article. It’s also full of all my usual scribblings. It’s my lifeline on the job and has been for years. I use it to write down everything that comes to mind. Lately, it’s been overflowing with insights about Bex, some professional, some not.

I take a deep breath and knock, determined to stay calm and stick to my decision.

“Come in!” Charles’s voice booms from the other side, already anticipating a conversation that, judging by his tone, he thinks he’s won.

I push open the door and step inside, my notebook held firmly in my hand. Charles is leaning back in his chair, looking like the cat that just swallowed the canary. “Rowan! Glad to see you’re back. How was Vancouver?”

The memory of Bex, with that serious glint in his eyes when he said he wants us to try, makes my stomach flutter, but I push the thought aside. “It was productive. The team did well, and the readers are eating up the player highlights that I’ve been writing. Our social media accounts are growing like crazy. I think we’re building something here.”

He nods, pleased. “Good, good. Keep your readers hooked—especially with all those juicy details about Townsend. The readership is going to pour in with us publishing the first exclusive of Bexley Townsend in years,” he says, his eyes gleaming with dollar signs and bragging rights among with news outlet colleagues.

I grip my notebook a little tighter, but I don’t let my discomfort show. “That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you,” I say, my voice as steady as I can manage. “There’s something you should know.”

His brow arches in curiosity, and he gestures to the chair across from him. “Go on.”

I take a seat, my grip on my notebook firm. “I can’t write the article that you want me to write.” Confusion covers his face. He’s not sure where I’m going with this, “I still have a story, it’s just going to be different than you expect.”

Charles’ jaw tightens. He’s not happy but he’s listening. “What do you mean, different than what I expect?”

I lean back into my chair, settling my boundary. “I mean, I’m not digging up dirt on him. There’s a reason he’s kept his life private,” I clarify, my voice firm but calm. “I’ll write a good story, Charles. An honest one. But I’m not crossing the line.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans forward, elbows on his desk. “Come on, Rowan. You’re telling me you’re sitting on a gold mine of a story—getting up close and personal with Bex Townsend, inside access to the team—and you’re not going to use it?”

I clench my notebook even tighter, feeling its familiar edges press into my palm. I shake my head. “I’m going to give you a great story, Charles. But it’ll be one I can stand behind. One that respects his trust.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Rowan, you’re missing the big picture here. You have a once-in-a-lifetime chance. The readers want more than stats and game highlights. They want the real Bex. His divorce, his love life, his family overseas that he never talks about. You’ve got the inside scoop—so let’s use it.”

“I’m going to give them the real Bex,” I reply, setting my notebook on his desk and patting it in front of him. “It’s all here. I have the story, I’m just not giving up his closely guarded privacy. I’ll find a way to balance both.”

Charles stares back at my notebook and then reclined back in his chair, his fingers lacing together in front of him.

“I let the story about Keely’s father go… I would have fired anyone else for keeping that under wraps. That cost this newspaper missed revenue, Rowan. Just ask yourself if Townsend is worth your job,” he says.

“Are you threatening to fire me?” I ask, standing my ground.

With the head sports journalist still out from his surgery a few months ago and milking his time off, Charles still needs me to finish out with the Hawkeyes. Besides, I have too much he wants to use and I’ve been bringing in more subscribers with my articles about the team that most of the reporters at The Seattle Sunrise combined.

“No, I’m not going to fire you. I’m going to make this very clear. I hired you because I know you’re good. But I also know you’re ambitious, which is why I’m offering you this opportunity. Don’t waste it. I need the story, and your job depends on it.”

The words hang between us, cold and unyielding. I know he means it. Your job depends on it. The weight of that promise—the tension between my professional life and my future relationship with Bex—settles heavily over me. But I can’t back down.

“I’ll get you a good story,” I promise, my voice unwavering. “But it’ll be on my terms.”

He studies me for a moment, eyes hard. Then, with a dismissive nod, he says, “Fine. But don’t let me down, Rowan.”

I stand out of my chair and head for the door. “I won’t.”

Without another word, I turn and head out of his office, feeling the tension unwind just a little with each step I take.

A few hours later, I’m typing up Sam’s story with a feverish speed on my laptop, the story spilling out of me. Details about Sam’s legacy, the chance at rekindling a love almost lost, I don’t even need the notes in my notebook as the story practically writes itself. Once Charles sees what I have for him instead, he’ll see that I still have a headliner—a scoop that no one else does. I write into the early morning hours and then pass out on my bed, fully clothed.

A chime sounds, another message, waking me from my sleep. Autumn again, this time with a frantic question.

Autumn: Rowan, are you okay? Please tell me if the article you posted this morning is some kind of mistake?

Another text pings through, this time from Tessa:

Tessa: I had no idea that Bex’s wife left him without any notice. That’s really sad.

I blink at the text messages in shock, my fingers flying over my screen, until I make it to the post Autumn and Tessa are talking about. The newest post first thing this morning on The Seattle Sunrise’s social media about. It’s already hit a million views with thousands of likes. I scroll through the influx of comments flooding The Seattle Sunrise's latest post. My vision is a blur, and the pounding of my heart almost drowns out the words in front of me, but the truth is glaringly clear. Somehow, the details—the raw, personal moments Bex shared with me—are all there in black and white, printed under my byline.

“No, no, no…” I whisper, my mind reeling. I’d never planned to share any of that. Those were his secrets, his stories, entrusted to me in vulnerable moments I never intended to use.

I can barely breathe. How could this have happened? My mind races, piecing together fragments of the last few days. Then, an icy chill spreads through me as a memory clicks into place—my notebook, the one with every intimate detail about Bex. I left it on Charles’ desk when I left.

Oh my god. Charles.

I read through the article again, each line gutting me as I read things I never meant to publish. The story has everything Charles would have wanted—Bex’s journey, the well-to-do family in England, the years of struggling in hockey, the regret of the missed last years of his father’s life, the discarded ex-wife who left him to marry a dentist. And all of it— all of it —under my name.

Panic fills my chest, twisting tight. It’s still early in the morning. Maybe I can get to him before Bex sees this—-before the team sees this.

I close my eyes, dread washing over me like a wave. And then I jump off my bed, grab my car keys and race out the door of my apartment, nearly running into Hans and Sherlock as I weave past them in the hallway from their morning walk.

Bex trusted me, believed me when I said I wouldn’t dig for a story about him. And now, it looks like I’ve broken every promise I made to him.

The thought of facing him, the pain I’ll see in his eyes if I can’t get to him first, is almost unbearable. But no matter what, I have to talk to him. I have to make him understand that this was never supposed to happen.

My fingers fumble across my phone screen, dialing Bex’s number before I can second-guess myself. But as it rings, I realize I have no idea what to say to him. How do I even begin to explain?

The call goes to voicemail.

“Bex, please… Please call me back. Don’t look at your phone, okay? I’m on my way to the stadium and then I can explain. I didn’t know he would—” My voice cracks, and I can’t finish the message. I hang up, panic threatening to consume me.

I feel like I’m falling, spinning in a nightmare I can’t wake up from. He’s going to think I betrayed him for a headline, just like every other reporter he’s tried to shut out. And maybe worse, he’s going to think that this entire time, I was using him for information, for an exclusive.

I need to get to him, to make him understand that I would never… But even as I think it, a cold realization settles over me. How will I make him believe that when the proof is staring him in the face?

I can still hear Charles’s voice from that last conversation, “Your job depends on it.” And maybe it does—but I never thought he would take my notes and turn them into this. My stomach turns, a sick feeling bubbling within me.

I call Bex again, but it goes straight to voicemail again. I have no idea if he’s already seen it. Autumn and Tessa have, does that mean he has too?

I press the phone to my chest, drawing in a shaky breath as I fight to keep my composure. One step at a time, Rowan. First, I’ll get to the stadium, and then… well, I don’t know what comes after. But somehow, I’ll find a way to make him believe me.